


over and over

by orphan_account



Series: likewise [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blanket Permission, Gen, Pre-Canon, Running Away, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Just turn the key anddrive.
Series: likewise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858870
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	over and over

First thing you should know: Sam lied about the Grand Canyon.

*

He’s fifteen when they first end up in Arizona, a haunting three hours North of Winslow, a dead town where the main street shops have their windows shuttered up with newspaper and duct tape. It’s the first time Dean ever leaves him high and dry, throws his bag in the Impala and looks at Sam with this slow, sad smile on his face, ruffles his hair and tells Sam, _don’t worry, I’ll be back within a week,_ leaves Sam with a cabinet of crappy mac ‘n cheese and a few spare cans of soda. 

It’s slow country out there, nothing to do but go to a school where no one knows him and pace up and down the highway, see how many mile markers he can count before his legs give out. He breaks into Dad’s - _John_ ’s - liquor stash and downs a beer, then another, and another, and then he throws up on his shows, the laces running red with blood and vomit. He reads the only book he has - a 1968 copy of _Hamlet_ \- over and over until the lines run together and he can tell you every plot point, every name, every soliloquy. He does his homework, watches crap TV - reruns of MASH and Hogan’s Heroes, tries not to think about his life in metaphors - and when he’s done he sleeps, past his alarm clock, and misses two whole periods, but whatever, no one cares. 

The days blend together like that, kind of how his whole life has: every motel room is identical to the last, every hamburger tastes like the other, the chlorine in crappy motel pools has the same flavor when you get it up your nose. The instruments may change, but the melody’s still there. Same shit, different day. 

Until one day it’s not. 

*

It’s a Monday. He remembers that. It’s a Monday, and Dean and Dad are supposed to get back on Friday, and Sam is fucking _bored._ He’s done his homework. He can recite all of Hawkeye’s lines by heart, or Hamlet’s, same difference. He’s so damn sick of mac and cheese he nearly throws up at dinner, all over the floor of the motel parking lot. 

He looks up, and he gets an idea. There, not twenty feet away, stands a shining silver Mercedes, black leather seats and a shark tooth charm hanging from the rearview mirror. There’s a scrape on the side, but it’s got to be the most expensive car Sam’s ever seen. 

Dean took the Impala, of course. Wouldn’t let anyone else near her without his supervision, even Dad, even Sam. But he’s been teaching Sam to drive since Sam was twelve, put his hands on the steering wheel and told him which way to go, how hard to slam the gas when you weren’t in a rush, and when you were. 

And Sam’s taught himself a thing or two. 

The car isn’t even that hard to jack, cracked windows and batteries and ignition. It takes him longer than it should, but it’s his first time. Dad wouldn’t let them try, says if nothing else a man should be able to afford his own car. 

Sam thinks that’s rich from a guy who won’t even buy a dinner over ten bucks, but Dean always tells him to shut up when he says that. Sam’s kind of sick of it, but he doesn’t say anything because, well. It’s Dean. If he pisses him off, Sam is truly shit out of company. 

*

The drive’s barely two hours, but it feels like longer. The stars flicker in and out of view, the shark tooth jangling back and forth. His hands tremble over the steering wheel every time he sees another set of headlights, but he doesn’t stop. 

He doesn’t put on music. 

*

He parks on the side of the road and walks in. There’s probably security cameras somewhere, but who cares, not like the Winchesters will be around by the time someone figures out it’s him. He leaves a twenty on the counter just in case, pins it down with a rock to keep it from blowing away. 

Then he walks, until the night’s dipping into dawn and the stars are twinkling out of existence, until the sun shines over the red-black hues of the hoodoos and illuminates the dipping greens of the trees, the bright blue of the sky. He walks until his legs hurt and his eyes ache, until he’s near dead on his feet with hunger. He walks, and he walks, and he walks. Then he stops. 

He stands on the precipice of a cliff, dangles a foot over the edge and watches pebbles tumble and echo far, far down below. He sits down, tugs at a gnarled root and waits until the sun peaks over the horizon. He watches a swallow fly by. 

Then he turns back. 

*

He’s near dead on the way back, eyes twitching with paranoia at what he’ll do if the cops find him, and fifteen-year-old driving a Mercedes carrying only fifty cents and three fake IDs, but they don’t. 

The owner of the Mercedes must be a late riser, too, because no one notices him slipping out of the car he never owned. 

He worries, when Dad and Dean get back, that they’ll notice somehow, read it in his eyes, the line of his shoulders. But they don’t act any different. Dean gives him a cuff on the shoulder, Dad nods curtly. There’s nothing else, nothing to suggest he hasn’t gotten away with it.

*

That’s the first time he pushes the limits.

(It won't be the last.) 


End file.
